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Another quiet day at the armory… More empty time for your thoughts to wander away from your desk.
On occasion, clone troopers will playfully express their jealousy of your position, but being an ordinance specialist is surprisingly… Boring. Sure, on-screen, managing the GAR’s stores of firepower and explosives sounds like interesting work—but as you’ve learned in the past year, it’s really just a lot of exchanging goods with troopers from behind a durasteel desk, and readying blasters for deployment through routine checkups.
The unending rain of Kamino patters on against the window, and you track the descent of droplets with your gaze.
Perhaps, if you’re being honest, boring is a good thing right now.
The GAR does its best to accommodate holidays and the passage of time for its clone troopers stationed here on Kamino—special food in the mess on Life Day, the occasional celebration after particular victories… But Valentine’s Day is in a few days. Not much for the higher-ups to do about that—
But, since you’re one of the only non-clones on an entire base of eligible men, the air of anticipation has definitely led to you becoming the target of endless… Advances .
Nothing too egregious, thankfully—or, at least, nothing to write up a report about.
But all day, your datapad has been blowing up with messages from every trooper you’ve had a passing conversation with in the past several months—invitations to eat dinner alone together in the mess, to show off in the firing range… The list goes on.
And perhaps you could laugh more at the presumptuousness of these men if… There wasn't one trooper that has been on your mind.
CT-9904— Crosshair —might just be your most frequent visitor to the armory… When his squad is on-world, of course.
He’s taller than the rest of the clones, and the already-handsome features he shares with his countless brothers are given a sharpened edge on his stern, tattooed face. It had been intimidating, the first time you saw him stride toward your desk in his black-and-grey armor, distinctive Firepuncher slung over his back.
Without a word, he had placed a folded-up flimsiplast shooting target on your desk—with schematics scribbled onto them in an even hand.
“Think you’ve got the parts?” He’d asked.
The plans were a strange thing; a grappling attachment for a sniper rifle? It was unheard of, but—
“Yes,” you replied through a nervous swallow.
“Then you and I are going to get along just fine.” The man standing before you, then, had taken out a toothpick to chew on and shot you a sly wink. “Name’s Crosshair. What’s yours?”
And that’s precisely where this infernal crush had begun.
For months, you’ve worked with Crosshair to troubleshoot his deadliest ideas and offer him a few of your own. To him, you aren’t just the person with the guns —you’re an invaluable ally. You’ve earned his respect just as he’s earned yours.
But his past few visits, things have felt more… Charged. An electric current that only the two of you can feel.
Those nights after-hours, pouring over new schematics over shots of jet juice… Not to mention all the times that he’s offered to help you service the rifles out of personal interest .
Yes, you and Cross have been dangerously close to the precipice of something… And all these unreturned attentions you’re receiving ahead of kriffing Valentine’s Day has your real desires at the forefront of your mind.
A boring day, that’s just what you need.
Time to think things through—
Until, of course, the very object of your thoughts darkens your doorway… Handsome and capable as ever.
He waves a folded-up piece of flimsiplast your way with a knowing smirk—and, despite yourself, excitement bubbles out of your chest.
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“I’ll put in the request first thing in the morning, but it’ll take a few days for parts to come in,” you shrug at last.
Ding .
Your shift technically ended an hour ago, but with Crosshair, you find you don’t particularly care. You’re in the back room, now, feet kicked up on your ever-absent supervisor’s desk as Crosshair lounges across from you, long legs extended out from his chair.
Crosshair grunts his annoyance at the delay, but knows better by now than to ask you to hurry things along.
“One more thing,” he says, reaching toward his belt. “I need—”
Ding .
“Dank farrik,” he spits. “Can you shut that thing up?”
You blink stupidly for a moment before realizing he’s talking about the incessant alerts chiming from your datapad. It’s evening, and a lot of the troopers are off-duty now; so naturally, your would-be suitors’ have upped their activity.
Still, you playfully roll your eyes at his annoyance.
“Sorry, sir ,” you tease, flicking the volume on the device. “Guess I’ve just spent all day trying to tune them out.”
“Who in the galaxy needs to reach you so bad that they can’t come here and speak to you?” He grumbles his disapproval. His ignorance startles a laugh from you, which seems to only make him bristle more.
“It’s not one person , it’s half the troopers on this base, Cross.” At his look of undisguised shock, your laughter bubbles up anew. “Slim pickin’s on Kamino for a date for Valentine’s Day, ya know?”
Understanding dawns alongside something dark and unnerved upon Crosshair’s features.
“The regs are bothering you?” There’s anger in his voice that your irrational brain doesn’t know how to interpret; you run your hand along the back of your neck anxiously and look away.
“I mean, ‘bothering’ is a strong word.” You make an effort at a nonchalant shrug.
“They couldn’t handle you, anyway,” Crosshair states low and matter-of-fact.
“Excuse me?” You blink, unsure you heard him correctly. A nervous smile blossoms on your lips. “What, do you think you can?”
They’re dangerous words, stupid words.
Crosshair’s dark gaze locks with your own, and you feel like it scalds your very skin as he looks down your body, then back up again, one dark eyebrow quirked as he leans back in his chair.
He doesn’t answer.
After a look like that, he doesn’t have to.
Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous .
You clear your throat. “What, um… What were you going to say? Before. You said… ‘I need.’”
He straightens in his seat to reach for his utility belt, and you try to ignore the fine way his muscled arms flex at the movement.
“I need a lot of things,” he teases, evidently not done flirting quite yet. “...Including more of these.”
With a flick of his thumb, a scalded reflector disc lands on the desk between you. You roll your eyes before picking it up.
“You burn through these like wildfire, Cross,” you chide. “Too many special orders start to raise eyebrows with the bookkeeps, you know.”
“You’re clever,” he muses with a shrug. “You’ll figure out how to spin it.”
Beside you, your phone screen silently lights up with a new message. A stupid idea pops into your head—downright ridiculous.
But your words move faster than your brain does.
“Maybe if you’ll agree to be my Valentine.”
Pure surprise draws Crosshair’s normally-stern features to a blank, and a giddy laugh erupts from you at the sight.
“ Me? ”
“Yes, you ,” you smile as your laughter dies down. He still looks… Not disgusted, which you suppose is good, but perhaps a bit taken aback. All this heated flirting; what did he expect? Your smile turns softer. “It was always going to be you , Crosshair.”
Stars above, your ill-advised joke is turning into a confession —this is not how you wanted tonight to end. Maybe you can just—
“Stand up,” he murmurs.
Although confused, you readily oblige as he rises too, closing the distance between you two. Crosshair reaches once more for a pouch at his belt, and out he pulls—
A brilliant red flower.
“I don’t know what I thought to do with this,” he muses quietly, dark eyes focused on the bloom as he twirls the stem between his fingertips. “But when I saw it offworld yesterday, I thought only of you.”
Your heart feels like it’s hammering in your chest. This strange, delicate gesture from the deadliest man you know, the man that’s won your heart…
“Consider this,” he says, reaching out to gentle tuck the blossom into the breast pocket of your flight suit. “My acceptance. I’m all yours.”
Crosshair pierces you with his dark gaze one last time before he’s surging forward to capture your lips with his own.
A startled groan of pleasure leaves you trembling as he backs you up to sit upon the desk. Your arms lock around his neck for purchase—he’s so damned tall —while his own hands slide their way down your waist to your hips. He’s standing firm between your parted thighs, chest pressed flush to your own—and you wonder if it’s possible for your whole body to blush.
You part for air and blink up at him—feeling a little dazed and a lot happy. His lips are pink and swollen, his breathing rough and shallow as he drinks you in with his bitter-caf eyes.
“Anybody else asks,” he murmurs, sandpaper voice low like the hiss of a snake. He dips his head down to plant a trail of kisses down your neck; you gasp. “Tell them you’re busy that night.”